Contract and Lamentation
by MissTempleton
Summary: Why on earth shouldn't four butlers play bridge on their nights off, if they want to?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Four gentlemen sat around a kitchen table in South Melbourne. They contrasted in facial pallor in correspondence with their compass points.

Mr Wallace and Mr Dornoch, North and South, were ashen. Mr Barton and Mr Butler, East and West, were flushed.

The evidence on the table told its own story, and the room had been silent for almost a minute, apart from the heavy breathing of those present.

Finally, Mr Butler spoke up.

"You did it, Edgar. You did it. I couldn't believe … you did it."

He stood, surveyed the table once more, and raised his eyes to his partner across the table.

"A GRAND SLAM, Edgar!"

Jeremiah Wallace grimaced and pushed back his chair. Shaking his head in resignation, he held out his hand to Mr Barton, who grasped it firmly and pumped it energetically, before doing likewise to the still-frozen Winston Dornoch; then he turned back to Tobias Butler and smiled broadly.

"That article on Culbertson bidding signals was fascinating, Tobias – thank you for sending it on to me."

Mr Butler nodded his agreement, and sitting down to gather the cards, said to the other two gentlemen, "You understand what this means?"

They both nodded gloomily, and Wallace spoke up. "Indeed. A white peach apiece."

The terms of the Melbourne Butlers' Bridge Nights were clear-cut, longstanding and eminently affordable. It was therefore with good grace that the four friends shook hands and parted company.

As Mr Barton saw the others to the front door, his kitchen door was opened. The window, which had been slightly ajar, was latched closed, and a gloved hand turned on the burners on the hob, leaving them silently and treacherously unlit. The uninvited guest then departed as unobtrusively as they had arrived.

Edgar returned to the room, and, shaking his head in remembered glee, gathered glasses and ashtray to rinse in the sink. Such was the importance of the event that the washing of the evening's detritus could wait until the morning. As he stood each glass on the counter, though, he felt his eyelids drooping. Stupidly reaching for the final glass, his hand missed it, and it fell to the floor. Its owner followed it, and for some reason, failed to get up.

Dornoch, Butler and Wallace walked the short distance to the Honourable Phryne Fisher's Hispano-Suiza, which Mr Butler had been permitted to borrow for the evening. Wallace lived within walking distance, and accordingly bid the other two farewell before turning the corner.

It was not a backfire, as a neighbour later supposed, but a gunshot which stopped him in the street only a hundred yards from his front door.

Mr Butler didn't have Miss Fisher's taste for speed – especially when she wasn't in the back seat – and it was therefore a relatively straightforward task for a prosaic bicycle to keep the Hispano in sight long enough to see Mr Dornoch delivered to his garden gate.

This time the gunshot neatly severed his spine and he made a dreadful mess of his employer's back doorstep. Always a fastidious man, he would have been mortified; had he not already been … mortified.

Finally, the Hispano pulled up outside 221B The Esplanade. As the nursery overlooked the garage, it was understood that Mr Butler would leave the car by the front gate for once, with two precautions.

He had the distributor cap in one pocket and was in the process of removing the rotor arm when Phryne's maid, Lin Soo approached from the opposite direction, returning from her monthly duty visit to her grandmother.

From that day forward, Mr Butler provided Lin Soo with a cup of tea served to her room before her duties required her to rise. The reason was that Soo remarked the approach of a bicycle which wobbled slightly as the rider reached to lift something out of the basket. Her eye thus caught, it was further interested by the glint of moonlight on gunmetal, and she leaped forward in typically catlike fashion, to trip Mr Butler to the ground. His angry exclamation coincided with the thud of a bullet into the Hispano's coachwork.

Mr Butler had banged his head in the fall, and took a moment to recover his senses. Soo was rapidly back on her feet, and sprinting off in pursuit of the cyclist; but a lead of a hundred yards had already opened up, and would not be closed easily; especially with the distributor cap still in Mr Butler's pocket. Narrowing her eyes, she observed what she could of the assailant as they passed under another street light, before turning back to help Mr Butler into the house.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Mr and Mrs Robinson were relaxing over a post-prandial whisky when they heard the door open.

"Is that you, Mr B?" called Phryne. "How did you get on?"

At the same time, the telephone rang; they waited for a moment for Mr Butler to answer it, but he appeared to have vanished, so Jack went to take the call.

"Jack Robinson. What? Where? I'll be there as soon as I can."

He turned round, and realised that there might be a short delay to his departure.

"Mr Butler, what on earth happened? Soo?"

The maid was helping Mr Butler into the kitchen, where he collapsed into a chair and leaned heavily on the table, rubbing his forehead where a bruise was already starting to show. Soo took charge; going to the sink, she retrieved a bowl from the drainer to fill from the tap, and a cloth from the drawer, and started dabbing cold water at Mr Butler's bruised head to clean it. All the time, she spoke rapidly.

"Someone fired a shot at Mr Butler outside this house. They were on a bicycle, and the gun was in the basket on the front. I saw it and pushed him out of the way in time, but the bullet is lodged in the car. I tried to chase the cyclist, but they were too fast for me and Mr B had disabled the car. I have a poor description to offer."

The Inspector was forced to address his priorities in very short order.

"Miss Fisher?"

Mrs Robinson presented herself at the kitchen door, looking quizzically at the man who had shouted for the Lady Detective rather than the Wife.

"Jack?"

"Mr B's been shot at. Try to find out why. Soo has a description of the assailant, as well as – from what I can tell – the life of Mr Butler to be added to this year's Christmas Bonus. I'm off to examine an attempted murder in Clarendon Street."

At this, Mr Butler looked up.

"Clarendon Street, sir? But that's where I was this evening for my bridge game."

Jack was already striding out the door, but even if Phryne hadn't let out a breathless, " _Jack_ " this would have given him pause. He stopped in his tracks, and turned to offer a steady look to one of the most reliable men it was his privilege to know.

"Who was your host, Mr B?"

"Why, it was Edgar Barton. It was a marvellous evening. We'd been level pegging until the last hand, when he took us to a Grand Slam …" the older man's voice faded away as he watched the Inspector's face transition from surprise, through disbelief, to dull recognition of the day job rearing its ugly head once more.

"Not … not Edgar, Inspector?" Mr Butler had held his own in the trenches, but the possible theft of a friend's life in peacetime was differently insufferable.

"I don't know for certain, Tobias," the Christian name was no more noticed in delivery than noted in receipt. "But that's the report I've been given. I assure you, I'll telephone the household as soon as I have some clear facts."

Even as he spoke he was settling his hat on his head and making for the door. Then he popped his head back in. "Er, Miss Fisher, can I borrow the Hispano?"

"By all means, Jack," she said distractedly. "You might want to check where the bullet landed before you start the engine, though. Soo, show him. I'll deploy the arnica."

"And you'll need the distributor cap, sir," called Mr B. Wordlessly, Jack came back from the front door to retrieve the essential item his manservant was holding out to him. "I didn't have the chance to remove the rotor arm, Miss," Mr B apologised.

"Heaven forfend you should place a little thing like Not Getting Killed above the safety of my car," remarked his mistress sarcastically.

All those present politely refrained from commenting on the irony inherent in that statement from one of the most Inspirational (Miss Fisher) / Terrifying (Most of her passengers, most of the time) drivers in the State of Victoria. The Inspector did it by chewing his cheek and leaving quickly. Everyone else recalled who paid their wages.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"So, Mr B," remarked Phryne conversationally as the door slammed behind the most understanding husband a Lady Detective ever possessed, "why would anyone want to kill you? And, it appears, your bridge partner? Just what are the ridiculous stakes you play for at these events? I have to confess to a degree of vulgar curiosity."

"Not worth killing for, Miss," replied Mr Butler. "Tonight, I won a delicious white peach."

Her brow furrowed. "Curiouser and curiouser. What did you achieve for such a relatively tame reward? A two-clubs contract?"

"Oh no, Miss," Mr B smiled involuntarily. "No, the winners of the rubber receive a nice fresh apple. To get a white peach, we had to achieve a Grand Slam." He gazed into the distance and remarked absently, "On No Trumps. An exceptional achievement by Mr Barton."

"Then I think we can safely assume it wasn't a jealous rage on the part of your opponents," remarked Phryne. "What about other enemies? Have you inspired blistering anger in anyone lately?"

Mr Butler considered. "Unless the butcher is more touchy than I thought about my comments on the leg of lamb he provided last week – the one that was, frankly, mutton – I really can't think of anyone." He ran his fingers experimentally over the bruise on his head, and winced. "I think, Miss, if you'll excuse me, I'll retire for the night."

"You'll not only retire for the night, Mr Butler, you'll stay indoors for the foreseeable future until we've got some idea what happened tonight," stated Phryne firmly, and looked around as a quiet call came drifting down the stairs. "Ah. Feeding time at the zoo again. I swear, that child should be the size of a horse by now. Coming, Mary-Lou!"

So saying, she rose to her feet and ascended the stairs to the nursery, where one of the two nurses who provided round-the-clock care of arguably the most cosseted baby in Melbourne stood holding her precious charge. Miss Elizabeth Jane Robinson, contrary to her mother's assertion, was not in any way equine in appearance, but was rather a healthy size entirely appropriate to her six weeks on earth. For one so young, she was proving remarkably rewarding; both her parents traced signs of immense intelligence in her eyes, which would follow them solemnly as they chatted to her cheerfully – Phryne of gossip, Jack chiefly of complete nonsense. She was also very relaxed about life; although she had her mother's eyes, she had almost certainly inherited her father's philosophical temperament (and, Phryne thought, his cheekbones too) and would ask as politely as possible for her next feed.

Feeding had been something of a revelation to Phryne. Her natural fastidiousness had initially warred with the appeal of such a clever design by Mother Nature; but – perhaps in large part due to Elizabeth's amenable disposition and all-round genius in the process – she now rather enjoyed the whole business, which was not, as she had feared, in the least bit messy.

(Being able to wear some of her favourite gowns again within a matter of weeks had also made a difference).

Agnes, the wet-nurse, had been retained in order to allow Mrs Robinson a little flexibility in her day – and, it had to be said, to allow some modest resumption of the consumption of Hard Liquor by one who had always seen Mr Butler's prowess with a cocktail shaker as one of his key skills. The first martini after the child was born had still tasted like paint-stripper; but Phryne had Persevered, and Mother's Ruin was now at least occasionally reinstated on the menu.

As she sat in her divinely comfortable nursing chair and watched the most junior member of the household consume supper, she turned over in her mind the awful occurrences of the evening. Who on earth would shoot at Mr Butler? She decided that she believed him when he said he couldn't think of any suspects; he had a long memory, and – thanks to his employers' professional history – more than the usual level of experience of reasons for Folk to kill Other Folk. If he couldn't immediately think of a suspect, they would have to cast the net more widely.

Elizabeth began to appear both sated and sleepy; Phryne handed her back to Mary-Lou with a smile, set her dress to rights, and decided that an early night wasn't such a bad idea. Lin Soo assisted with her mistress' preparations for bed, and having supplied a cup of fragrant jasmine infusion, was allowed to retire.

"Soo?" Phryne said, as the girl opened the door. She looked back enquiringly. "Thank you," said Phryne simply. "We owe you a great debt for your work tonight."

A wicked grin flashed. "It is no trouble, Miss Fisher. I am only sorry that Mr Butler's so-beautiful face will be less beautiful for a little while." With that, she closed the door gently behind her and was gone.

Mr Butler's face _beautiful_? Phryne considered, and agreed. In wisdom and generosity of spirit there was indeed much beauty.

She finished her tea, and settled down with her book to await the Inspector's return.

The Inspector's return, however, was not until the sky was starting to lighten. It had been, for Jack, a very long night.

He crept into the bedroom, and saw the bedside light still burning, although Mrs Robinson was asleep, book still held loosely in her hand. He switched off the lamp, eased the book from her fingers and, by the grey light of the early morning, undressed and slipped under the covers.

The movement in the mattress made her stir.

"Jack?" she whispered groggily.

"Shhh. Go back to sleep," he whispered in reply; but Mrs Robinson was of independent spirit, and insinuated herself into his arms.

"It's very late," she remarked.

"Or very early," he suggested. "I can only have a few hours before I go back. I fear I have bad news for Mr Butler."

She propped herself on one elbow. "Mr Barton?"

"No," he said, "Mr Barton should pull through – his daughter shares the house, and came home in time to find him unconsciousness but not dead, from carbon monoxide poisoning. No, it's the other two players. She gave us their names; and both men were found dead tonight. Shot."

She stared at him in disbelief. "All four of them targeted in one night? Jack, there's a lunatic out there."

He nodded. "Quite possibly. But I've been up for almost twenty-four hours and unless I get some sleep, I'm going to be useless in tracking him down."

He relaxed back on the pillows at that, and closed his eyes; but she could see by the furrow in his brow that, no matter the degree of exhaustion, sleep was some way off.

"Let me help you with that, darling," she suggested; and proceeded to render Mr Robinson Very Relaxed Indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

It was almost midday, and the household was once more assembled around the kitchen table. Mr Butler was holding up well, but he made no attempt to hide his reddened eyes.

"Who would _do_ such a thing?" he asked repeatedly, of no-one in particular.

Despite Mrs Robinson's ministrations (or perhaps because of them), Jack had achieved a solid five hours' sleep, and while he'd had better days, he definitely felt sufficiently human to explore Mr Butler's bridge club a little more closely.

"That's what we hope to find out," he said succinctly, "and even if you don't have any particular enemies, Mr B, you might well hold the key."

"Well, quite," agreed Phryne, taking another sip of the Turkish coffee that got her through most mornings. "Where did you all meet, for a start?"

Mr B had to pause and think. "I suppose it was the agency. The one where _you_ found me, Miss Fisher," he clarified. "We would all go along there two or three times a week, waiting for something to come up. There are so many former batmen, you see. Anyone who'd had to take care of an officer during the war could do a decent job as a valet or butler in peacetime."

He smiled reminiscently. "We would sit and play cards while we waited. Just whist, because then it didn't matter if you got called away. Mr Wallace went first. A house in Toorak, very grand, I believe. He lived out, though."

"Is that not quite unusual?" asked Jack.

"Yes, but not unknown. Often the priority for rooms would be the cook or the housekeeper, or the kitchen maid who had to be up at all hours. The rooms would be a box room in the attic, too, like as not – better to have a little travel at the start and end of your day and be able to sleep in a proper room. Edgar lives out too, you know, although that was more because of his daughter. Mrs Barton died – oh, it must be about five years ago now – and Edgar's employers said he should stay at home with his daughter, who was still quite young at the time."

Phryne thought for a moment of the comfortable quarters her staff inhabited, and felt rather pleased with herself; then recalled the hours they probably worked, and reined her smugness in a little.

Jack stood up. "I think a trip to the agency is in order. Care to show me the way, Miss Fisher?"

"Of course, Inspector," she said obligingly, for all the world as though any attempt on his part to leave the house without her wouldn't have incited a scene of domestic violence. "Now, Mr Butler, you know the rules. You do not stir out of this house, and I don't care what for. War may break out on The Esplanade, but you will sit comfortably in your armchair and keep score through your binoculars. Soo, it is your job to make sure he obeys."

Dandenong Road was soon reached, although Miss Fisher first spent a short time crossly examining the hole in the Hispano's bodywork, and using words to describe the gunman that made even the Inspector raise his eyebrows.

Miss Fisher was welcomed warmly at the agency. Her generosity in Mr Butler's salary had, after all, been reflected in their percentage, and they had yet to see members of the Robinson household discompose one of their most prized assets – admittedly, also they hadn't the slightest idea about the trials Mr B had had to face, or the shenanigans to which he had been forced to turn either a benevolent or an altogether blind eye.

They were horrified, though, at the news of Wallace and Dornoch's deaths. Miss Agatha, the elder of the two sisters, clasped a liver-spotted hand to her mouth; while Miss Martha, the younger, plumper and homelier, burst into tears outright. They had little to add by way of detail, though, to what Mr Butler had already told the sleuths; addresses for Wallace's and Barton's employers were supplied. Phryne thought she recognised in Miss Agatha the signs of a woman already scanning her mental filing cabinet for replacement servants to offer to the bereaved houses, and tried not to think too harshly of her professionalism.

Returning to the car, they debated briefly before setting off for Toorak. Phryne reasoned that Barton was on the mend, so priority should be given to Wallace and Dornoch; and Jack had already interviewed Dornoch's household, albeit sketchily, the previous evening while the coroner's team were cleaning up the mess on the kitchen steps. They therefore set a heading for Kooyong Road, and pulled up outside one of the area's typically imposing residences.

"Not going to put the car in the driveway, Miss Fisher?" asked Jack, surprised.

"I think not, Inspector," she replied caustically. "I'd quite like to get it out again."

He glanced at the drive in question and saw what she meant. The gravel had been allowed to wear thin and scatter, leaving bare spots of mud, which had in turn developed into some fairly promising potholes.

"The poor old Hispano's had quite enough to put up with lately," remarked Phryne. "I wonder what the state of the driveway says about the state of the house?"

As they picked their way up the drive, some clues to that question were answered. The windows were beautifully large, but the paintwork peeled; the stonework was pleasingly symmetrical but badly needed repointing. They were too close to the house by this time to get a look at the roof, but a crack underfoot drew Jack's attention to a slate which had become dislodged and fallen to the ground.

They exchanged expressive glances; and the Inspector stepped forward to pull on the doorbell somewhat gingerly, half-expecting it to come away in his hand.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

There was a considerable delay after the doorbell rang, with no sign of response from inside the property.

Jack debated ringing the bell again, not wanting to disturb a potentially grieving household. Phryne's response was more prosaic.

"If at first you don't succeed, Jack …" she began.

"Try, try again?" he asked, stepping up to the bell.

"Try round the back," she corrected, and suited actions to words.

With a sigh, he jogged after the rapidly receding frame of The Honourable Phryne Fisher On The Warpath.

Sure enough, their approach to the kitchen door was played out to the accompaniment of increasingly audible voices, and they weren't raised in song.

"Not one more day, Mrs Ralphs!"

"Please, Mrs Micklewright, you can't desert us. With poor Mr Wallace gone, we can't possibly manage …"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but fine words butter no parsnips, and we've no parsnips in the house, no, nor no butter neither," came the uncompromising response at equal volume. As employer/employee relationships went, this one appeared to lack a certain _je ne sais quoi_.

Miss Fisher was, therefore, in her element.

"Good afternoon," she said politely as she opened the kitchen door, icy dignity incarnate. "The Honourable Phryne Fisher. My card. And," she gestured, "Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson."

Knowing his cue, Jack decided he'd better follow through on the Card thing. She only used the 'Senior' tag when she was trying to frighten people, after all. She hadn't yet promoted him to Superintendent purely for the purposes of scaring the bejaysus out of a witness, but it was probably just a matter of time.

Glancing at the two women in the kitchen, he had to say that the strategy was so far working beautifully. Mrs Micklewright had gone white to the lips, and the Lady of the House looked as though she was about to faint dead away.

Hastily, he skirted Miss Fisher and pulled out a kitchen chair from the table, pressing Mrs Ralphs into it with more emphasis than courtesy.

Miss Fisher nodded at him graciously for his trouble, and then asked – very politely, with consonants perfectly articulated –

"Were you both here yesterday evening at about nine-thirty?"

Mrs Ralphs gasped. Mrs Micklewright helped herself to a chair, and went bright pink.

"What a nerve! Who are you to ask things like that, I'd like to know?"

"Just answer the question, please, Mrs Micklewright," said Jack quietly. "Miss Fisher is closely associated with our investigation and I requested her presence today." Both statements strictly true; the fact that he was fairly enamoured of her presence most days was something present company didn't need to be bothered with.

"I … yes, I was here. Well, in my room here," said the housekeeper, forcefully.

"Thank you," said Jack. "Is there anyone who can vouch for your presence?"

The woman drew herself up, spine ramrod straight.

"No, Inspector, there is not. I am not in the habit of fraternising with other members of staff during our leisure hours." She fumed visibly, before granting them a grudging slip of further information. "I occupied myself with my embroidery until ten, and then turned out all the lights in the servants' quarters and retired to bed."

Jack nodded politely, and turned to the other woman, who had apparently recovered her composure a little in the face of such prosaic details (or perhaps, having been allowed to put parsnips and butter into perspective).

"Mrs Ralphs?" he prompted.

"I – why, yes – I was here. My husband and I dined at seven as usual, and then spent the remainder of the evening in the drawing room."

"Thank you," replied Jack politely. "And were there … other staff on the premises last night?"

The two women exchanged looks, and the housekeeper responded to the tacit instruction.

"Just myself, the cook and the maid," she stated baldly. "It was Mr Wallace's night off."

"Thank you, Mrs Micklewright, we were aware of that," replied the Inspector. "We would like to interview the cook and the maid, please? Also, Mr Ralphs?"

"Mr Ralphs won't be home for another two hours _at least_ , Inspector," said Mrs Micklewright dismissively. Phryne was intrigued at the balance of power in the household that had the housekeeper accounting for the whereabouts of her master in the presence of her mistress. "Cook will be back from her Free Afternoon at six o'clock, and Elsa is dusting the china in the dining room."

Given the creaking of floorboards in the hallway in response to that statement, Phryne rather doubted its veracity, but a warning glance from the Inspector had her playing along, and they processed solemnly to the dining room, where a skinny and very youthful maid with lank hair and a sulky expression was poking angrily with a feather duster at some dubious Meissen.

Despite having resolutely thanked and dismissed the housekeeper, though, neither sleuth could extract a meaningful contribution from the child. Her age ("fifteen, mum reckons") and her longevity in the household ("nigh on six weeks, feels like six months") were the only substantive facts supplied. She had not, it appeared, had the nerve to disturb either the housekeeper or her employers once sent to her room, on account of it being More Than Her Life Was Worth.

They were in the process of giving up and leaving when Jack turned back, as a thought struck him.

"Elsa, does Mr Ralphs own a bicycle?"

He had the dubious pleasure of watching the Victoria Police Force wane visibly in Elsa's estimation.

"Nah." Then she grinned. "You've not met him, then."

Phryne decided to take advantage of the thawing of relations. "Not the athletic type?" she suggested.

Elsa snorted. "Take a taxi to the top of the stairs if he could, Miss."

"Not a happy household," remarked Phryne as they returned to the car.

"No," agreed Jack. "But I could say the same of the Christie house that Dornoch served."

They decided he would drive home, and got into the car; Jack took the advantage of the privacy it afforded to turn to Phryne and lift her hand to his lips.

"I'm struggling to find parallels for these four men, but I can say for certain that it wasn't a flaw in their households that they had in common."

He met her gaze. "The people in your house aren't staff, Phryne – they're family. Not just to you, but to each other. In itself, it's a clue to this, I'm sure of it. But it's also a blessing. You're a blessing."

 _I have spread my dreams under your feet_.

How often did he offer his soul for her to trample upon? And how rarely did she rate herself worthy of that trust?

She kept his hand and raised it to her cheek; he carefully drew hers back again and placed it upon his thigh, before reaching for the starter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

No sooner had they reached the house, though, than Mr Butler met them at the door with a message.

"Constable Collins telephoned looking for you, sir. He asked me to let you know that Mr Barton has regained consciousness, and appears able to be interviewed." He was as punctilious as ever, but his relief was evident – not only in the news that one of his friends had come through their ordeal, but also that Collins was at the hospital to make sure no further harm came to him.

The sleuths exchanged glances.

"Time for some hospital visiting, Jack?"

He nodded, and turned back to Mr Butler. "Any altercations, Mr B?"

"Nothing at all, sir," the older man assured him. "Lin Soo and I are working our way through the cleaning of the silver; then I was going to challenge her to a game of backgammon."

Phryne decided that this all sounded sufficiently tame for her to be allowed to venture out once more, and set off with the Inspector for the hospital.

Senior Constable Hugh Collins was stationed outside Edgar Barton's hospital room. He had been supplied with a chair, but was declining to use it; granted, it didn't look very comfortable, but the presence of Mrs Collins was probably a more likely cause of its rejection.

"Hello, Dot!" smiled Miss Fisher. "What brings you here?"

"Miss," the other half of Fisher & Williams, Lady Detectives, grinned. "Hugh asked the hospital to let me know that he wouldn't be home in time for dinner – so I decided dinner would need to come to him." She gestured to the wicker basket placed next to the Constable's chair. Then her demeanour changed. "Miss, it's awful about Mr Butler and his friends. Hugh and I were just saying – What are the chances of someone finding four people they wanted to kill, all in the same bridge group?"

Phryne shook her head in agreement, but Jack paused on his way into the room, tipped his head to one side and regarded Dot consideringly for a moment.

"A very interesting question, Dorothy," he eventually commented. "Thank you for asking it. Collins, if you two want to take that basket somewhere for a change of scene until we've finished with Mr Barton, Miss Fisher and I will undertake the security of the patient."

Collins thanked him, and Dot led the way towards the hospital's garden.

Barton was pale, but composed. "Inspector; Miss Fisher. Tobias has told me a great deal about you, and I would like to help in any way I can."

"Thank you, Mr Barton," replied Jack. "If you could tell us of anyone who could possibly have cause to wish you harm, that would help immensely."

Like Mr Butler, though, Barton was nonplussed. "Perhaps the odd petty argument here and there. A disagreement with a colleague, or a tradesman. But really, I'm a fairly easy-going person, Miss Fisher. We all are." Then he reflected, and collected himself hastily. "Were. Even Wallace."

"Why do you say that, sir?" asked Jack intently. Phryne glanced at him, but held her peace.

Barton smiled with a hint of sadness. "Jeremiah Wallace had some strong views, Inspector. He was a Catholic, and a devout one. Went to Mass every day if he was able. But he was a forgiving man too; if someone did something he thought was wrong, he would try to get them to see the error of their ways – once. Then he'd simply pray for them." He smiled again. "He would always say that telling someone you were praying for them was the best incentive he'd found to get them to change their ways."

He looked up at the two sleuths. "Someone should let his priest know. At Our Lady of the Seas in South Melbourne."

Phryne was about to offer Dot's services when Jack forestalled her.

"Thank you, Mr Barton, that's a very good point. I'll go myself."

Phryne's glance this time was even more quizzical. What was the Inspector up to?

A nurse appeared at that point and, with a glance at the exhausted patient, shooed them both from the room.

Mr & Mrs Collins were still enjoying their alfresco supper, so Mrs Robinson subjected Mr Robinson to a whispered Third Degree in the hospital corridor.

"You've got an idea in your head, Jack Robinson, and I want to know what it is."

He regarded her blankly for a moment, lost in thought, then pursed his lips.

"Phryne, I can only say that I hope I'm wrong. If I'm right, we're dealing with a killer more evil than I had bargained for." In a few succinct words, he outlined his supposition. She caught on immediately; and in true Miss Fisher style, didn't waste time throwing up her hands in horror.

"Neither Mr Barton nor Mr Butler have so far had a second attempt made on their lives, Jack," she pointed out. "If that happens, it'll cast doubt on your idea. In the meantime, when are we going to church?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Miss Fisher wasn't very good at mornings as a rule. Providing breakfast for Miss Robinson was about the only thing that made being awake at such an unconscionable hour bearable. However, Miss Robinson was becoming a bit of a dab hand at getting her mother to smile, despite her (Mrs Robinson's, that is) bad temper at that time of day. It was therefore with reasonably good grace that Miss Fisher was not only awake, but subsequently bathed, dressed in something suitably sedate laid out by Lin Soo, breakfasted and being ceremonially driven by her favourite Detective Inspector to Our Lady of the Seas, at an hour carefully timed to coincide with the end of morning Mass.

They sat in the car for a little while, watching the trickle of early-morning faithful disperse. When the priest had farewelled his final parishioner, the Inspector got out and walked around the Hispano to let Miss Fisher very properly out of the vehicle, for all the world as though she wasn't fairly practiced at diving out of its windows if the need arose, let alone opening the door all by her poor, frail self.

This was going to be an interview where they needed to be as far above reproach as it was possible for a Protestant to be in such company, and they were both giving it their best shot.

Figuratively speaking, of course.

"Father?" asked Jack, as they crossed the road towards him. He had the impression they were meeting a receptive audience – or at least, Miss Fisher's car was.

"God is truly a masterful designer," remarked the priest. "Yes, I'm Father Connor."

Phryne bit her lip, but couldn't quite bring herself to let that one pass.

"To be fair, the Spanish and the Swiss surely deserve most of the credit for the aerodynamic design, Father Connor?" She extended her hand. "The Honourable Phryne Fisher."

"Ah, yes, but who designed the wind, Miss Fisher?" he asked gently, taking her hand in both of his in a practiced gesture of blessing. Father Connor, she realised, had a charisma that many of his peers sadly lacked, and the spark of humour in his eyes had her take to him instantly.

Acknowledging the point with a corresponding twinkle, she introduced the Inspector, who had watched the interplay appreciatively and thanked his stars that this was one situation where he could _almost_ certainly shelve any twinges of jealousy.

"Could we go inside, Father?" he asked politely. "I am afraid we have some bad news to impart, and we also need your help."

They sat in the pews at the rear of the church, and any humour in Father Connor's expression was quickly dispelled at the news they had to impart.

"Jeremiah Wallace? Oh, may the Lord bless his soul," the priest crossed himself automatically. "That's truly awful news. Such a gentle man, and such clarity of purpose."

Phryne had been wondering how a man of the cloth would describe a person who would relentlessly pray for his opponents.

Jack took the initiative of raising their thorny issue.

"Father, I'm sorry to have to ask this. I'm sure you understand that we are embarked upon a murder investigation; and that not only Jeremiah Wallace, but also a friend of his, Winston Dornoch, was murdered that night; and two other men had their lives threatened, one of whom is still in hospital. We need to do everything we can to track down the person who did this, before …"

"…before someone else is harmed," interrupted Connor. "I do see, Inspector. You must also see that my position is difficult. Tell me what it is you want to know, and I will see if I can help."

"What we need to know, Father, is as much as you can possibly tell us about anything that was troubling Mr Wallace. Any arguments he might have had, or fights he got into?" asked Phryne.

Connor was silent for such a long time that the sleuths worried that they'd caused offence. Phryne's patience snapped first.

"Father?" she asked, not quite managing to keep the testy note out of her voice. Jack kept his face straight, but she knew the scowl was there. _Patience, Miss Fisher!_

The priest turned back to her a few seconds later, though, entirely unhurried.

"Forgive me. I was praying."

They both looked at him in confusion, and he smiled a little.

"Inspector, Miss Fisher, prayer isn't all 'God bless Mummy, God bless Daddy and please make Venice the capital of Italy'."

Jack wondered how on earth this man who was younger than him could possibly have eavesdropped on what sounded like a very familiar litany from his eight year old self.

"Sometimes it's just taking a good look at God, and letting God take a good look at you."

Phryne shifted uncomfortably before she remembered that her conscience had been completely clear for at least … oh, it had to be twenty minutes. But Connor was speaking again, so she left her conscience to fend for itself.

"I can tell you what Jeremiah told me of himself, when he was in the confessional. He is with his Maker now, and there are no more secrets for him. I cannot tell you what he told me of others, although I am sure that if you wish to, you can force such confidences from me with the power of the law. I hope you will not need to resort to such lengths."

Jack and Phryne exchanged a long glance, and Jack spoke for The Law.

"Tell us what you can, Father, and we will do our best. In any event, hearsay would have as poor a standing in our courts as it does in yours."

This garnered an appreciative nod from the priest. "Jeremiah was concerned that he had witnessed a crime; not just a single crime, but a continuing act of fraud. However, he also felt that he should not report the perpetrator to the authorities; he did not say why."

Jack pressed his lips together in frustration, but Phryne leaned forward, interested.

"Are you able to tell us how you responded to his dilemma, Father?"

Connor eyed her with new respect.

"Indeed, that was my challenge." He paused, and examined his own hands, folded on his lap. He was, Phryne thought, unhappy with the decision he had made. "I decided that I should have faith in the undoubted strength of Jeremiah's own moral compass, and allow him to make a report to the authorities when he judged it right."

Phryne pressed his hand in sympathy, but Jack could no longer hold his peace.

"And Mr Wallace _and_ Mr Dornoch are now dead, Father. Thanks to your faith in Mr Wallace's _moral compass_." Jaw clenched, he turned on his heel and left the church.

Connor snatched his hands from under Phryne's grasp, his previously animated expression now a bloodless blank. He said no more, but stood, and bowed a sketchy farewell to her; then walked slowly to the front of the church, crossed himself once more, and knelt on the altar steps.

Phryne crept from the building, and climbed back into the Hispano. Wordlessly, Jack, whose knuckles showed white on the steering wheel, started the engine and let in the clutch.

"Where are we going, Jack?"

"Back to the Ralphs'," he said shortly. "I'm looking for a bicycle."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

This time there was no need to Try Round The Back. Elsa opened the door (albeit grumpily) and visibly brightened to see who was standing on the step.

"Is it the mistress you want to see?"

"Not immediately, no," replied the Inspector cagily. "Elsa, you know I was asking whether Mr Ralphs had a bicycle?"

The girl giggled at the memory. "Laughed myself silly about that for ages."

"I didn't ask, though, whether anyone else in the house has one."

Elsa pulled a face. "Well, there is a bike the staff can use but I don't know how. Never learned."

"You never learned to ride a bike?" Jack could barely contain his horror, and Phryne swallowed a smile.

"Not everyone had a family heirloom to sell when they wanted a bike, Inspector," she reminded him gently. "Elsa, could you show us where this bicycle is kept?" As if from nowhere, a shiny coin appeared, and was made to disappear with almost equal efficiency.

Glancing fearfully over her shoulder, the girl pulled the door closed behind her and beckoned them to follow her around the side of the house. A path through the overgrown garden eventually led to a shed which was in broadly the same state of repair as the main house. The one window was missing half of its pane of glass, which seemed to obviate any security measures; however, Elsa reached under a flower pot by the door (where no thief would have dreamed of looking, though Jack sarcastically), and dealt swiftly with the padlock.

The padlock and the bicycle were the only things that appeared to have enjoyed any care at all. Propped against the wall of the shed, the bike – a sit-up-and-beg with a wicker basket on the front handlebars – was a little rusty around the wheels, but the chain was oiled and spun silently when Jack raised the back wheel to test it.

"Who else uses it, Elsa?" asked Phryne as she watched Jack at work.

"Anyone, Miss," the girl replied. "We all gets our days off different, so any of us can. 'Cept me, like I said. And Cook isn't keen, says the seat plays merry hell with her piles."

Jack's eye was drawn to the front basket, and for a moment he inserted himself awkwardly between the women and the bicycle. Then he turned back to them.

"Thank you, Elsa," he said politely. "Miss Fisher, what are the chances of finding Lin Soo at your house at this time of day?"

"Unless she's suddenly mislaid her devotion to Mr Butler, I would say it's a dead certainty," she replied promptly, then added, given the circumstances, "if you'll forgive the expression."

The Inspector rather suspected that the loyalty in question was to Miss Fisher rather than anyone else, but as the outcome was the same, didn't argue the point. He turned back to Elsa. "I will need a brief word with your mistress before we go, if she happens to be available?"

"I'll see," said the maid caustically. "Last I heard she was lying down with a headache."

"Is Mrs Micklewright in the house at the moment?" asked Jack.

"Think so," replied Elsa. "Want me to get her?"

"No, no, that's fine," said Jack hastily. "In fact, if it's possible to bring Mrs Ralphs to the drawing room without disturbing Mrs Micklewright, that might be best."

The maid scurried off, and Phryne took the opportunity to sidle up to the Inspector.

"What are you up to, Jack?" she asked teasingly.

He laid a finger to her lips, and held out his hand. In it was a small, brass case that would once have contained powder and a bullet.

"It was in the basket. I think it was missed by the shooter. I'll lay good odds we can match it with the rounds found in the two victims and your car."

"Mrs Ralphs?" asked Phryne sceptically.

"No – unless I'm much mistaken, the description Soo gave means that we're going to have to ask some very awkward questions of Mrs Micklewright."

Miss Fisher regarded her husband thoughtfully, then nodded in agreement.

"Why do you want to see Mrs Ralphs?"

He shrugged. "I just want to check that she can't ride a bicycle. I don't think she's the right build for our suspect, but I want to double check with Soo."

Phryne followed him back to the house, two steps behind for once, and in a brown study.

As good as her word, Elsa succeeded in producing a rather pale Mrs Ralphs, supporting her to a wing chair by the fireplace in the drawing room.

"Thank you for seeing us, ma'am," said Jack politely, and then drew a breath to ask his next question – but was forestalled.

"Yes, Mrs Ralphs; the Inspector was wondering whether it might be possible to review the household accounts?" asked Phryne blandly.

"The accounts?" asked Mrs Ralphs, startled.

The Inspector knew what was good for him, and followed through smoothly. "Yes. We believe there may be some … discrepancies which could help us with our enquiries."

It wasn't perfect, but it was the best he could do at three seconds' notice, and Miss Fisher appeared to approve, so he breathed again.

"Well, I don't know … they're kept in Mrs Micklewright's sitting room. I'll ring for her," said Mrs Ralphs worriedly, and struggled to her feet.

"No, please," Phryne's tone was velvety-smooth. Jack knew that tone. It was the one that said someone was about to get a nasty fright. "I'm sure I can find it. In her sitting room, you say? Inspector, I know you wanted to get some more details on the household's movements on the day of the murders – shall I make myself useful while you get on with that?"

He gave her a hard stare as she backed out of the room with more haste than dignity, before taking out his notebook out and flicking to an empty page. "So, from the time Mr Wallace left the house on his day off …?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Jack and Mrs Ralphs had laboriously detailed for the second time the period between five and ten p.m. on the night in question, and the Inspector was starting to run out of delaying tactics. What _on earth_ was Miss Fisher doing?

Then the peaceful house was disturbed by raised voices, one of which was shrill, the other firm. Then a door slammed so hard that the thick layer of dust on the occasional table in front of the Lady of the House was caused to shudder and shift slightly. Well-shod feet could be heard walking briskly towards the drawing room, speeding up as a second pair of feet was heard to give determined pursuit.

The drawing-room door, which had been ajar, was swiftly closed and leaned against by The Honourable Phryne Fisher, who appeared oddly out of breath. The handle was then tried behind her, and she leaned against the door more emphatically, while at the same time holding out what appeared to be a ledger.

"Inspector," she panted, "I think you might be interested in this."

An ordinary policeman would have taken exception to being presented with evidence in such an unorthodox manner, and probably started asking awkward questions.

Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson was not, as we know, any Ordinary Policeman.

He took polite delivery of the ledger, tucked it under his arm, and inserted himself behind Miss Fisher at the door. Leaning his weight against it, he calmly invited her to take a seat. She strolled to the mirror over the fireplace, straightened her hat which had for some unknown reason become sadly askew, shook out her skirts, and perched elegantly on the wing chair opposite Mrs Ralphs, looking expectantly at her husband.

"Mrs Ralphs?" said Jack, for all the world as though the door was not receiving regular attacks from the outside which caused his shoulder to take the occasional battering.

Mrs Ralphs, frankly terrified, stood up and edged across the room to the reassuring presence of The Police.

"Mrs Ralphs," began Jack quietly. "I am about to open this door."

"Oh, no, please, Inspector!" exclaimed the woman plaintively.

"I am about to open this door," continued the Inspector inexorably, "and you are going to be standing beside it with your back to the wall, there. When the person currently trying to effect an entrance comes through it, they will be propelled quite rapidly to a position near Miss Fisher. At that point, I would like you to exit the room. I will close the door behind you."

"Oh, no, please, Inspector!" exclaimed the woman, with what Phryne thought was a tedious lack of variety.

"At that point," continued the Inspector as though she hadn't spoken, "you will go to the telephone – is the telephone still connected?" he asked, suddenly struck by an unpleasant thought.

"Yes, Inspector," said Mrs Ralphs in a small voice, having finally recognised a Higher Authority.

"Good. You will go to the telephone, and ask to be connected to the City South Police Station. You will then say that Detective Inspector Jack Robinson requests immediate support for the arrest of a violent suspect, and give your name and address. Have you got that?"

Mrs Ralphs now appeared to have become a dutiful servant, and repeated the message faithfully.

Jack smiled at her, and she gave him a rather wavering smile in return, standing with her back to the wall by the door.

He timed his move according to the regular batterings, and snatched the handle open just as the person outside had thrown their weight forward. Mrs Ralphs gave an excellent impression of a rat leaving a sinking ship. Mrs Micklewright didn't even notice her exit as she staggered into the room, before steadying herself and straightening to face her accusers.

Jack cursed inwardly.

How _on earth_ could he have forgotten about the gun?


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Mrs Micklewright backed across the room to a position where she could cover both of them with a narrow range of sight. Still, she was having to swing her aim from one to the other.

"Go and stand beside her," she rasped at Jack, gesturing with the gun. He did so, and Phryne reached up nervously to take his hand in her shaking fingers. He squeezed her hand instinctively, and realised that she had extracted her thumb from his grasp. That wasn't a shaking hand – It was Morse tapping.

 _Dash, dash, dash; dash-dot-dash; O – K_

Well, yes, on balance, they were both okay, apart, possibly from the minor issue of the crazed lunatic with the handgun holding them hostage. He squeezed her hand again to show his understanding.

"You won't get away with this," he told the woman with calm certainty.

"I don't care," she said dully. "I'm done for anyway."

"At least, if you're going to kill us, tell us why?" Phryne begged tearfully.

 _Tearfully?_

She was tapping again.

 _N-O-R-O-U-N-D-S_

His poker face was at its most inscrutable and his relief was indescribable. So she had managed to find and unload the gun in her search for the ledger? This was no mere woman he had married. This was a goddess.

Knowing that they were out of danger, their sleuthing had to be accompanied by some quality thespianism. He did his bit by trying to edge in front of her, using his body to shield her.

"Stop right there, Inspector" snarled Mrs Micklewright, "unless you want me to test this gun's ability to send a bullet through two people at once? I admit, I'm pretty good at making resources stretch, but that's what happens when you've got nine mouths to feed on one person's pay."

"Nine?" asked Phryne. "That would explain the vast quantities of food the Ralphs had been ordering. For this size of household, I was starting to wonder where they were putting it all. But they weren't putting it anywhere, were they? You were."

"I had to," said the housekeeper. "It was hard enough keeping my own family going on my wages, but when my sister brought her lot to live with us, and no-one earning anything, the only way I could feed them was to order extra here."

"And Mr Wallace found out." It was a statement from Jack, not a question.

Mrs Micklewright scowled. "Ruddy busybody. He had to order the wine, that was all – the rest was my business. Then one day he caught my Alfie waiting at the kitchen door for the day's parcel, and asked him what he was up to."

"When was this?" asked Phryne. "Surely Mr Wallace would be generous? He was a good man, by all accounts. Come to that, why not ask the Ralphs themselves to help, instead of stealing from them?"

She sneered at that. "Skinflints! If the money wasn't being spent on them they weren't interested. They haven't even paid me for the last three weeks."

Even Phryne thought this perhaps wasn't the best time to point out that the state of disrepair of the building suggested that the Ralphs' were already suffering enough from their hitherto-unappreciated charitable works.

"So, what changed?" Jack prompted.

The housekeeper's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she was clearly convinced she had the upper hand, and wouldn't get to tell her tale again.

"Wallace tried to get me to stop. He came over all pious. Said the Welfare would help, and stealing wasn't the answer." She shuddered. "He said he'd _pray_ for me."

"But why …" Phryne couldn't help herself.

"Why kill the others? Oh, come on, Miss Fisher," said Mrs Micklewright dismissively. "You kill one man and all the questions are about him. Kill four, and everyone thinks it's a homicidal maniac with a grudge."

"So …" Jack was struggling to put the words into a rational sentence, "you killed Wallace and the others because you were afraid of your fraud being found out. You were literally eating the Ralphs' out of house and home, and then killed to stop that crime being discovered."

"I did, Inspector," she said coldly, "and I'm about to do it again. I'd rather be shot myself than see my family starve to death. So would you, Miss Fisher, if you knew what it was to be hungry."

"You have no idea how well I understand what it is to be hungry; and you won't be shot – you'll hang." Phryne had finally snapped. She rose to her feet, and took a pace towards Mrs Micklewright.

"Don't you come a step closer, or I'll shoot!" exclaimed the woman. She took a small step back as she did so, and stumbled against the chair behind her. As she overbalanced, her hand rose, and there was a loud report; the glass in the mirror over the fireplace shattered.

The interruption was enough for Jack to leap forward and knock the gun from her hand, rolling her roughly to the ground and securing her arms behind her.

Phryne secured the gun, and then sat, mouth open, gazing at the mirror.

"Crumbs," she remarked. "She reloaded."

"So it would appear, Miss Fisher," agreed the Inspector faintly, as the bells of police cars sounded in the driveway.


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

It was the merest scratch on the door, but it had Phryne awake, reaching for another pillow and sitting up gently, so as not to disturb her Sleeping Policeman, who was still recovering from a rather more challenging day than usual. Inadvertently avoiding being shot dead would apparently do unexpected (but not at all unpleasant) things to a man's libido.

The nurse's head appeared first, then she walked softly into the room, carrying her small burden carefully.

"She's just woken, ma'am – not crying, but ready, I think," she whispered.

"Thank you, Mary-Lou" Phryne whispered back, taking the baby and latching her on for a feed in practised fashion. "You go back to bed, I'll bring her through when we've finished."

Smiling her gratitude, the nurse left the room, pulling the door closed behind her. The next few minutes were so calm and quiet that Phryne very nearly dropped back off to sleep; the room was lit only by the street lamps, and her husband's gentle snores the only sound.

Elizabeth Jane, though, once she'd had her fill, snuffled gently, and that was enough for Detective Inspector Jack Robinson to detect a disturbance. Propping himself on his elbows, he regarded wife and daughter blearily.

"I'll take her back to the nursery," he said. Not an offer, more of a statement, and Phryne wasn't sorry to hand over the baby and settle under the sheets again.

Clad only in pyjama trousers, Jack held the child to his shoulder and slipped out of the room and along the landing. Mary-Lou had left a single light burning in the nursery, and by its glow he placed Elizabeth back in her simple crib. She gazed up at him as he did so, eyes bright, and kicked her legs experimentally. He stood for a moment, leaning both hands on the side of the crib, watching her quizzically.

"You're wide awake, young lady, aren't you?" he whispered. "And if you're anything like your mother, I'd give it less than five minutes before you get bored and want company."

Doing it this way allowed him to pretend he was being dutiful. He tiptoed over to the door leading to the night nurse's room, and pulled it closed. Then he returned to the crib, lifted out his daughter and carried her over to the chaise longue, resting her on his knees as he reclined upon it. For a few moments, they simply surveyed one another. He grinned at her.

She studied him carefully, then responded with her first-ever attempt at a gummy, but heart-stoppingly charming grin. Helplessly, he breathed a gentle laugh, and they smiled idiotically at one another for a good few minutes.

He then rested her in the curve of his arm, gave her a conspiratorial wink, and began:

"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful, brave and very clever lady, and a lonely policeman whose heart was cold as stone …"

Phryne stretched and blinked; the dawn light was filtering through the window. Instantly aware that she was alone, she debated for a moment, then got up and, donning her robe, went along to the nursery. The door was slightly ajar; what she saw when she pushed it wider made her breath hitch in her throat.

Detective Inspector Robinson lay in his pyjama trousers on the chaise longue, sound asleep. Miss Elizabeth Jane Robinson, clad only in a napkin, lay on her tummy on his chest, also sound asleep. His arm was curved protectively around her small frame.

For long minutes, Phryne was content simply to stand and gaze greedily; then, mindful of the different kind of greed Elizabeth would shortly be exhibiting, she crossed to the nursing chair and curled up, chin on fist, to wait for them to wake.


End file.
